Friday is Hawaiian Shirt Day

Titles Among the Stacks of Books on a Co-Worker’s Desk Which, If They Were Required Reading for My Job, Would Mean I’d Have to Get a New Fucking Job or Quit Before I Burned the Building Down

--Getting to Yes
--Crucial Conversations
--Crucial Confrontations
--How Full Is Your Bucket?
--Love the Work You’re With
--Assimilating New Leaders
--The Cycle of Leadership
--Six Thinking Hats

Will not miss.

So, y’all hear? John Updike kicked the bucket. Boo fucking hoo.

The blurb on the front page of the SFGate described him as an “erudite chronicler of sex.” You know, “erudite” doesn’t mean “smart” or “wittily verbose” or whatever they seem to be saying here; it means “possessing or displaying erudition,” which means “extensive knowledge acquired chiefly from books.” Which is, of course, hilarious, because since I know he thought of himself as a legendary cocksman, and probably he did poke it in a whole bunch of starstruck, too-ignorant-to-know-any-better females, I think A)he’d be really pissed at anyone suggesting he learned about balling from books, and B)as far as I can tell, everything he thought he knew about the female half of the human race was likely learned from printed matter (mostly Penthouse Forum and such hacky drivel as his buddy Styron’s written spooge).*

And I’m not sure I’d give the SFGate “chronicler,” either; Updike was totally, completely obsessed with penistry in all its forms (except for teh ghey secks, of course! He was a MAN, DAMMIT!), but “chronicler” implies some sort of … I dunno, anthropological or documentary interest, which he certainly showed no signs of. That would’ve required some sort of investigation into the matter, and he was mainly concerned with misogyny and contempt for the various receptacles of his & his characters’ jizz. He was one of those mid-to-late 20th-century Manly Man Authors who professed to “love women,” but for whom all women were so thoroughly and profoundly Other (not to mention Lesser) that there was never any real chance of knowledge or connection.

So anyway: Good riddance. Buh-bye now.




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*Maybe they meant "erudite" to describe his famously well-read childhood or whatever, but it doesn't read that way in the blurb, and anyway: fuck him, who cares?

Suck it, Boomers.

There was an article in the NYT yesterday about the "maligned" Baby Boomers – Jesus H. SHATNER do these people love fucking talking about themselves – in which, among other things, they claimed President Barack Hussein Obama as one of them.

No. Hell to the FUCK no.

The man is X.

Demographic birth-year cutoffs, blah blah blah; Obama’s 1961 birth date puts him technically on the cusp between Boomer and X,* which means that depending on his upbringing, his outlook, his experiences, which cultural forces he was shaped by and identifies with, he could go either way. So here’s the thing: Ma Gleemonex, b. 1948, is a Boomer. President Obama, like my cousin, is 12 years older than me; he was a toddler when JFK was assassinated and the Beatles were on Sullivan, and he was never at risk of being drafted into Viet Nam. He’s one of mine, goddammit.

You fucking Boomers, with your bullshit be-ins and LSD and the conviction that you invented sex. You had the Beatles and Kennedy, sure,** but you also gave us Hair and the Who and a shitload of divorce. Woodstock – oh my GOD. Three days of peace, love, and music? More like, three days of mud, pubic lice and Sha Na Na. You guys have been sitting there sucking up all the resources and making us watch Cialis commercials and shitting the Osmonds and George W. Bush and thirtysomething and Paul Fucking Simon all over us for waaay too goddamned long.

Hands off, Boomers. You already got yours.

Obama’s ours.





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*Or squarely in it, according to Strauss & Howe; their book 13th Gen: Abort, Retry, Ignore, Fail? totally rules.
**None of the five of whom, I am compelled to point out, were themselves Boomers, so there.

Also: Jams? Really?

Things I Wish I Could Have Told My Thirteen-Year-Old Self, Not That I Would’ve Listened to Me

--Don’t waste your time crushing on that Scottish exchange student your neighbors are hosting. He’s Scottish, sure, which is hot, but HE’S not that hot. You’ll learn the difference eventually, but you could start now.

--Your fake British accent is HILARIOUS.

--No, no, no! Don’t destroy that novel about the four children of the four members of a Very Very Thinly-Veiled Beatle-ish Band forming their own band and becoming rock stars singing songs you wrote the lyrics to! You see, someday, there’ll be a thing called Cringe, and you’ll want to read this masterpiece, but it’ll be lost forever to the sands of time (and your obsessive fear that your brother will find it and read it and DIE FROM LAUGHING AT YOU).

--Stacie Lee is less scary than you think she is, and a lot more awesome.

--Save the fifty bucks your dad’s gonna demand for the international long-distance bill; Paul McCartney is unreachable, no matter how many flunkies buy your story of being a student journalist. PS: Are you nuts?

--Don’t get another perm. Don’t get another perm. Don’t get another perm. Ohhh, shit, you got another perm, didn’t you? Oh well, it’ll make an OK blog post someday.

--Despite the awesome dresses and the distinct absence of the seventh and eighth grades, the antebellum South would not, in fact, have been a very good place for you, so maybe you should give that time-travel idea a rest.

A Collection of Awesome Things People Said or Wrote About Yesterday’s Events

In re: Dick Cheney:

--“Cheney looks like he has Indiana Jones's amulet seared into his palm.” [Laid-Off Dad’s Twitter feed]

--“Strong men do cry, Mr. Lebowski. Strong men do cry.” [me, to Mr. Gleemonex]

-- “Cheney in wheelchair. But where is his fluffy white cat?” [John Hodgman’s Twitter feed]

--“What a perfect – and just – exit for such an enormous asshole.” [the sweet stank that is Spanish Johnny]

General Interest:

--Ding dong! [HHL nails it]

--“ ... and now the Cloverfield monster reaches up and swipes Bush into Central Park?” [Sundry’s Twitter feed, in re: Probst-like helicopter departure]

--“Have I gone too far in ordering the "Princess Diana & Prince Obama - One Moment In Time" Commemorative ... Plate?” [John Hodgman’s Twitter feed]

--Bush Street signs changed to read OBAMA … I love SF! [the inimitable Panda!!!!]

--Good riddance, you worthless piece of shit. [the foul and wonderful Mega Superior Gold]

No cynicsm today, check back tomorrow

Internets – what a day. WHAT a day.

It’s been hard to focus on anything else, with the TV showing constant coverage since 8:15 this morning, and every time I hear anyone say “President Obama” – which is often – it still sends a little thrill through me.

You guys, it was so awesome, watching him be sworn in, speak for the first time as President, walk with Michelle down Pennsylvania Ave., and then finally, just awhile ago, escort his beautiful family up that wooden walkway and into the White House, his daughters practically skipping with happiness and pride.

As crusty as I usually am, it’s hard for me to put into words this light, fluttery, hopeful feeling – it’s been so goddamned long since I’ve thought of our President with anything but disgust and loathing and impotent burning rage. But I watched this thoughtful, intelligent, good man take the oath of office and it just felt like everything shifted. I held my little daughter on my lap at one point this morning and thought, it’s gonna be OK, we really are gonna make it.

We are. And godDAMN does that feel good.

Just a gigolo

Internets, if you are a music-blog reader like Mr. Gleemonex, you will have already seen this -- but for the rest of us, here are HOURS of hilarity and awesomeness.

First: Who needs a band backing you up, when you can have the fucking kickass roundhouse kick to the musical gonads that is Songsmith?

Second: How have any of us lived this long without the Diamond Dave Runnin' With the Devil soundboard? (Note: You must provide your own spandexed scissor kicks.)

Third: How could both of these things be EVEN MORE AWESOME? Mix the unclefuckers up!

Speedbaggin

Mental Conversations I Have Had With a Certain Aggressively Dickish Re-Usable Shopping Bag That Is For Sale All Around Downtown SF

Dickish Shopping Bag: “I’M SAVING THE PLANET. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Gleemonex: Thinking about what a fuckin dick you are.

Dickish Shopping Bag: “I’M SAVING THE PLANET. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Gleemonex: Heading out in my Hummer to do a bunch of awesome 360s all over a wetlands preserve, you dick.

Dickish Shopping Bag: “I’M SAVING THE PLANET. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Gleemonex: Planning on punching out the lights of whoever I see carrying you, dick.

Dickish Shopping Bag: “I’M SAVING THE PLANET. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Gleemonex: Thanking you for your incredibly valuable and selfless contribution to the betterment of humankind, the planet and indeed, the glorious universe. The other six billion of us totally owe you an awesome blowjay.

Dickish Shopping Bag: “I’M SAVING THE PLANET. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Gleemonex: Your mom.

PS: Those are the words printed in large letters on the shopping bag. I am in general in favorance of re-usable shopping bags; it's just that I really want to kick the ass of this one in particular.

Want some grapes, bitches?

Third part of a series …

Things I Wrote In Notebooks During Meetings in 2006, In Which I Remember Neither the Meetings Nor Writing These Things During Them

SAVED!
by the buoyancy of citrus
[elaborate sketch of a lime surrounded by two outspread praise hands]
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Cause I’m sick of your mouth and your two percent milk
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“Byron architects these stories”
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I must break you
********************

Goddamn right, I’m adding this to my [yearly review] document.
********************

[drawing of spaceship flanked by MGM Grand, Paris, NY/NY, Bellagio, Luxor]
They gonna put it down
on the Vegas strip
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I’m not at liberty to say the details of this most peculiar warning
********************

[my handwriting] When [Head Designer] sees this, he’s going to SHIT A BRICK.
[someone else’s handwriting] I know
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Gen Y is “visually oriented” =
[large billboard w/scraggly letters]
WE DUNT REED WORDZ
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--de-budgetized
--productionalized
--parking-lot (verb)

You’re so vain, you prob’ly think this post is about you

Here’s the thing: There are plenty of reasons I don’t watch Gossip Girl (note the returns of BSG! Lost! Friday Night Lights! Big Love! 24! [shut up it’s awesome]! The Office! 30 Rock! Monk! Psych! Burn Notice!), but the biggest reason of all – besides a general aversion to the “rich young assholes prancing around like they matter” genre – is this one episode of it that I saw once.

This brunette, one of the leads, had carefully arranged a meeting at the skating rink at Rockefeller Plaza, involving herself, her dad, some other guy, and a couple of other people – don’t know, don’t care who – and had all the timing, and words, and outfits all set up just so. Needless to say, someone failed to perform according to script, and the whole thing fell apart and waaaah.

GodDAMN, did that push my buttons.

See, there is a person from my past – won’t say who, or even what gender or when in my past this was, because I don’t know if this person might be a Damn Kids reader, and if so, he/she would probably be flattered by my writing about him/her in any capacity – but this person saw the entire world and everybody in it as set dressing on the stage that was his/her Fabulous Life. I cannot count the number of times I was drafted into his/her schemes, or was the beneficiary/intended audience of one, or an unwitting player, whether bit, walk-on, or major supporting role (needless to say, he/she was always the STAR). Each actor in a given scheme was usually only handed their own pages of the script, as it were, so that this person alone knew the whole setup – he/she was writer, director, producer, publicist, agent, etc. – and everyone else was supposed to know nothing of the production at all. We – the other five billion Earthlings -- were supposed to think it was entirely organic, when in reality, nothing about this person ever was if he/she could help it.

Goddamn motherfucking tiresome. So, no, I don't wanna watch a teevee show about that.

Where have I been lately: A Poem

Two days of
Nine to five meetings
Are a beating.

Profundity

Internets, I am a coffee person. Lotsa kick, smells good, warms frozen heart-cockles. But every once in awhile I go for a booster shot of tea, like this morning when the double latte failed to clear the cobwebs. I don't ask a lot of tea -- just get in the cup, go down in a few gulps, try not to stain anything. So it is unspeakably annoying to have to read little cute-ass things on the outer wrapper of this Fair-Trade Certified, Organic ya ya ya, such as today's gem: "Each river ends in a world of oceans." Spare me the Zen Master bullshit, wouldja please? You don't see the fucking Coke can talking that kind of smack.

Phase Three is profit!

Things I Wrote In a Notebook During Meetings in 2005, In Which I Remember Neither the Meetings Nor Writing These Things During Them

Can’t do nuttin for ya man,
Flava Flav got problems of his own
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high harmonies, no chops
**********************

thank you, Captain Oblivious
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But Moooooom, I hafta do my love scene with Salma Hayehhhhhk!
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--39 defects to retest
--16 ready for retest
[large drawing of dagger]
HUMAN ERROR
**********************

[stick figure of bear]
Want a gummi bear? They’re all warm and soft from my pocket.
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Yeah, your MOM has a blog.
**********************

buckets III
silos II
drive III
impactful II
touch II
re-visit IV
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When you’re in an airlock, everybody looks like a Cylon.
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“However we decide to language this”
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